Ambush

by Barbara Nickless

  Somewhere behind us, an engine growled to life. I looked in my side mirror. A black SUV came around the corner and rumbled down the street at the pace of a fast walk. I shoved the key into my pocket and my Glock into my waistband. Clyde and I got out of the Land Cruiser.

  The mother had ditched her coffee cup and was moving at a fast trot down the sidewalk. The truck kept pace with her. The little girl was still far ahead of both of them.

  Clyde’s eyes were already on mine, ready for a command. I gestured toward the girl, then shouted, “Guard!”

  Clyde took off like a rocket. As soon as he began to run, the truck driver revved the engine. I heard the gear drop into place, and the driver accelerated.

  “Kaylee!” screamed the mother.

  I broke into a run, heading toward Clyde and the little girl. Clyde had all but closed the gap. No doubt he would terrify both the girl and the mother. But my concern was the truck. I threw a glance over my shoulder.

  The SUV popped up onto the sidewalk and swerved toward me.

  I yanked my Glock free from the small of my back and pivoted on my heel, racing into the nearest yard. As the truck pulled alongside, I spun and went into a crouch, gun up.

  “Police!” I yelled.

  I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure in the cab as the driver yanked the wheel in the opposite direction, dropped off the curb, and accelerated back onto the street.

  At the end of the block, Clyde had corralled the girl on her tricycle and herded her onto the grass. Her eyes were wide with terror.

  I ran after the truck, but the driver gunned the engine and sped down the rest of the block, racing past Clyde and the girl and disappearing around the corner with a squeal of tires and not so much as a flicker of brake lights.

  The mother and I reached the girl at the same time. I called Clyde back to my side while the woman snatched up her daughter from the tricycle. The little girl burst into tears.

  The mother looked at me and then Clyde with a mix of horror, anger, and gratitude.

  “I’m sorry if we scared her,” I said. “Clyde is trained to protect.”

  “That’s his name? Clyde?”

  I told Clyde to offer a paw. The woman—her name tag read Sandy—squatted and turned the little girl toward Clyde.

  “See, sweetie? He’s a guard dog. Like a guardian angel.”

  The little girl wiped her nose and stared at Clyde. Clyde kept his paw out, and Sandy reached around her daughter and shook it. When she stood again, I ordered Clyde back a couple of paces.

  Sandy stroked the girl’s hair. “Jimmy would have grabbed her.”

  “What?”

  “My ex. He’s been threatening to take her.”

  “That was your ex-husband?” So sure was I that this was a move by the Alpha that I struggled to recalibrate.

  “Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here.” She swept the girl’s hair back. “You probably scared him off for good.”

  “You need to report him,” I said. “Get a restraining order.”

  “I will.” She looked sincere.

  I pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “Call me if I can help.”

  As Clyde and I walked back up the street toward the Land Cruiser, I glanced at the house next to Ellen Ann’s.

  The teenager was still on the front stoop.

  Still texting.

  I wondered if he’d ever looked up.

  The next item on my list was to go to Denver Pacific Continental headquarters and talk to my boss. Since I was going to pursue Kane’s killer, I might as well try to make it semi-legit.

  Going into work would also give me the chance to catch up on the latest buzz surrounding Kane’s murder. All cops feel the murder of another cop. But railroad cops form their own unique clan, regardless of whether we’re freight or passenger, and Kane’s death would hit hardest among my fellow bulls.

  But I had to take care of something first. Clyde’s and my close encounter with Jimmy made me determined to know if the Alpha had actually put a tail on me. I rolled down the windows—the Land Cruiser didn’t have air-conditioning—then got back on the highway, heading away from work. Ten minutes later, I exited and detoured to a theme park in northern Denver known as Water World. At the entrance, I joined the line of cars filing into the immense parking lot. The place was packed with thrill seekers, but I drove to the outer edge of the lot and backed into a spot.

  A steady stream of cars followed, packed to the gills with families or teenagers. Fifteen minutes after I’d parked, a brown sedan caught my eye. It drove up and down the lanes, passing multiple parking spots. When it drove directly past the Land Cruiser, I spotted two men in buzz cuts and polo shirts sitting in the front. The man in the passenger seat turned to look straight at me.

  They drove past and parked a few spots down. The driver shut off the engine and lowered windows, while the passenger reached a hand over the seat and came back with a white McDonald’s bag. He pulled out four red boxes and handed two of them to the driver. They chatted and ate.

  I got the message. Intimidation, not stealth, was the point of this game.

  I considered marching over, telling them to get the hell away from me. But it felt too much like crushing cockroaches. I looked at my watch. Cohen should be on the ground by now. I keyed his number, but the call went straight to voice mail.

  “Call me,” I said.

  As the day’s heat seeped into my bones and the last of the adrenaline trickled out of me, I resisted the desire to put my seat back and take twenty. I didn’t know when I’d picked up the tail, or who would take over for these guys when their shift was over. I felt outmanned and probably outgunned.

  I leaned over and pressed my face against Clyde’s warm back. He shifted until we were sitting forehead to forehead.

  “Just one more day,” I told him. “One more day, and we’ll end this.”

  Unless the Alpha ended it first.

  I pushed myself upright. Clyde gave me a tongue-lolling grin and went back to people watching. His tail thumped as a squirrel bounded across the asphalt and ran up one of the handful of trees in the lot. He gave a happy, I’m-not-on-duty bark.

  One thing about my partner—he made a rich life out of little things. And he didn’t sweat the big stuff. I should learn from him. For the moment, I’d make better progress if I focused on squirrels and ignored the wolves.

  I started the engine.

  The sedan followed us out of the parking lot. I watched as they tailed me onto the on-ramp, but once on the highway, they dropped back and let a few cars get between us. They didn’t seem overly concerned with keeping me in sight.

  Interesting. My truck had been locked in Cohen’s garage while I was gone—safely stowed behind the guarded gates of Cherry Hills.

  But the same could be said of Cohen’s home. And that hadn’t stopped them.

  After a stop at Travelli’s Deli and fighting noontime traffic the entire way, I turned into the parking lot of Denver Pacific Continental headquarters. I waited. A few minutes later, the sedan drove past the DPC gate and parked half a block down on the public street.

  I pulled into a spot between my boss’s new red pickup truck and a dark-blue BMW sedan that belonged to the new guy, Greg Heinrich. Heinrich was five months into the job and—in my humble opinion—lacked a certain commitment to the profession. Plus, I didn’t trust his car. Why would the kind of guy who could afford a Beamer take a job as a railroad cop? Was he just making time between gigs? Or lording it over us blue-collar trash?

  Clyde and I got out. My faded tan Land Cruiser looked embarrassed to be next to such shining examples of modernity.

  “It’s a muscle play,” I told my car. “You’ll give the fancy guys the shudders.”

  When Clyde and I walked into the small office area that housed the railroad police, my boss was nowhere to be seen. But Heinrich sat at his desk, which faced mine, chatting into his Bluetooth. He looked up and waved when w
e walked in. I dropped into the chair at my desk and signaled for Clyde to sit. Judging by the slow thump of his tail, Clyde was happy to be back. A working dog is happiest on the job, squirrels be damned.

  “I’m on it,” Heinrich was saying into the mouthpiece as he tilted back and stared at the ceiling. His face was red. “Yeah, yeah, it’s covered. Don’t worry. I got it. See you tonight.”

  He finished his conversation and turned to me with a tired smile. The candle burning in his eyes didn’t match his haggard expression. Coffee or Red Bull, I figured. The rocket fuels of cops everywhere.

  “What are you doing back?” he asked. “Not that I’m not happy to see you. But aren’t you supposed to still be on vacation? And what’s with the hair? And the shiner?”

  I’d worked out my story ahead of time. “Took a fall by the pool and decided Mexico isn’t for me. I just came in to talk to Mauer and get the buzz on Jeremy Kane.”

  “Kane. What a tragedy.” For a moment, Heinrich looked like he’d be sick. I offered him my trashcan, but he swallowed hard and gave me a weak smile. “I should never have looked at the recordings. I’m going to have nightmares for months.”

  Wait until he got his first jumper. “Any news that’s not in the papers?”

  “Nothing I’ve heard. Denver Major Crimes says it looks pretty cut and dried. Guy was a few trees short of a forest, and something triggered him. God knows what. Maybe he just didn’t like Kane’s looks. Next thing you know . . .” He swallowed again. “We’re on Level 2 security, but nothing’s come across the wire.”

  “What about links to similar crimes?”

  “One tramp shoved another in a town in New Mexico. And another guy fell asleep on the tracks after his friend dragged his sleeping bag there. Just another day in the life of drunken hobos. On the other hand, the regular cops aren’t exactly sharing with us cinder dicks. Ask me, Major Crimes is a bunch of self-righteous assholes. Here”—he reached back around to his desk and picked up a printout—“is the Daily Intelligence Briefing. There’s some buzz along the eastern seaboard from the homeland guys. Talk of a threat.” Heinrich shrugged. “I don’t pay too much attention. Homeland Security would have us going up and down like yo-yos if we tracked too closely. Tracked. Get it? And anyway, don’t see any link with our guy.”

  I scanned the printout. “And no one has suggested Kane’s death had anything to do with a bigger danger?”

  Heinrich gave me a look like maybe I’d drunk too much of the terrorist-threat Kool-Aid.

  “Nah. Like I said—” He cocked his head, and I could tell he was getting a stream of information through his Bluetooth. He murmured a confirmation, then pushed back his chair and stood.

  “We got a trespasser,” he said. “Same schmuck keeps standing on the tracks down near Hogan’s Alley. I better get on it.”

  I stood as well, and Clyde came to his feet, his eyes on me.

  “I like the new look,” Heinrich said, heading for the door. “Always did prefer brunettes.”

  I didn’t punch him. But it was a close thing.

  Mauer still hadn’t returned, but the door to his office stood open, so Clyde and I went on in. My ass had barely hit the chair when I heard my boss’s voice.

  “The hell you doing back?” he said by way of greeting as he breezed in.

  “It’s good to see you, too.”

  He went around his desk, smiled at Clyde, then shot a scowl at me. He looked as ferocious as a teddy bear with constipation.

  “I gotta be honest with you, Parnell. I’m kinda pissed to see you here. Thought you’d be slamming tequila and baking on a beach about now. And what’s with the shiner?”

  “Mexico City doesn’t have beaches.”

  “Whatever. Why are you sitting in my office instead of letting some rich señor buy you a nice dinner? And forget the shiner. What’s with the hair? Trying to blend with the locals? Never mind. I don’t want to know. Go ahead and have a seat.” He glared at me. “Oh, yeah, I see you already did.”

  I smiled at him, and he rolled his eyes. When it came to his officers, Deputy Chief John Mauer was all bluff and no bite. Around the office he acted more like a den mother than a leader of men. We would have walked on live coals for him. About six months ago he’d suddenly dropped more than sixty pounds. Over the last two, I’d watched with relief as he regained a third of it. Whatever demons he’d been battling, he seemed to have bounced back.

  “I want to work the Kane case,” I said.

  “The thing about you, Parnell, is you beat around the bush too much.”

  He opened a drawer and pulled out a treat, which he tossed to Clyde. Clyde caught it in midair and waited hopefully.

  “That’s all I got, maligator,” Mauer said.

  Clyde huffed and sat.

  Mauer scowled at me. “I’m gonna ignore what you said.”

  “Sir, I heard about Kane while I was in Mexico, and I—”

  “Do not tell me you came back because of the murder at Union Station.” He stabbed a finger at me. “You need to drop the Columbo act and play at being a railroad cop once in a while.”

  “Who’s Columbo?”

  “Jessica Fletcher, then.”

  “I’m not big on pop culture.”

  “I can tell. Just stop trying to solve every damn crime in the county. How’s the therapy going?”

  “You aren’t supposed to ask.” I’d been in DPC-mandated therapy ever since the Hensley investigation went south and a lot of people died. A number of them at my hand. “Kane was a Marine. He was in Habbaniyah when I was.”

  “I know he was a Marine. What the hell does it matter that you guys were in-country at the same time?”

  “It’s—”

  “And don’t give me any Semper Fi bullshit, Parnell,” he plowed on. “Denver’s finest is already on it. It’s not.” He pounded the desk. “Your.” And again. “Job.” A final slam.

  I let him go on for a bit, grousing about people knowing their place and not sticking their necks out or their noses in. With Mauer, once the cork came out of the bottle, it was hard to fit it back in until it was damn ready to go. I waited until he wound down enough to take a breath, then stepped in.

  “I went to Mexico because I’m trying to figure out something that happened in Iraq when I was there.”

  “Parnell, you’re giving me whiplash. What the hell does Kane getting killed by some asshole bum have to do with Iraq?”

  “It probably doesn’t. But I need to be sure.”

  He pressed his fingertips to his temples like he’d just gotten a headache. “You will be the death of me.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “More of a hell no.”

  “Okay then.” I stood.

  “Ah, for—” He dropped his hands. “Sit your ass back down. You told me when you applied for this job you wanted a little quiet.”

  I remained standing. “Maybe I wasn’t meant for quiet.”

  “Everyone but DJs and stuntmen needs downtime.”

  “And Marines.”

  He muttered a string of words I was pretty sure weren’t in the dictionary, then took a breath and sat up, propping his elbows on the desk. “Explain it to me.”

  I dropped back in the chair. “I just want to poke around a little. Ask a few questions. Make sure I’m wrong.”

  “Iraq and Kane. I’m not tracking.”

  “It’s probably nothing.”

  “You’re still on vacation. Helluva way to spend it.”

  I waited, unsure whether to give him my pearly whites or puppy dog eyes. I would go outside the lines if I had to, but this job would be easier with official backing.

  We had a stare down for thirty seconds. I blinked first. I got to my feet a second time. “I’ll be back in the office next week, when my vacation is officially over.”

  “Goddammit, Parnell.” He unlocked a drawer in his desk and reached inside. “Helluva way to run a railroad.”

  He held out a key fob and an extra set of keys. “Your
new chariot. If you’re going to go all Sherlock Holmes on me, you might as well drive it instead of that deathmobile you call a car.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “We got new vehicles?”

  “Homeland decided it was time to drag us into the twenty-first century. New SUVs for everyone. More horsepower, cellular, and a satellite linkup. And your K9’s digs are pretty cushy, too.”

  My fingers itched to take the keys. “I’m not on duty yet.”

  “The detailing ain’t done yet, either. Fair trade. You’ll be undercover. Seems to me it’s a good idea to get used to the vehicle before you’re officially chasing bad guys. Move your Land Cruiser to a corner spot until you can come back for it. Or better yet, hide it in that pile of junk by the garage. We got an image to uphold.”

  I took both the keys and the implied approval. “Thanks, boss.”

  He grimaced. “Pick up your work laptop on your way out. Now get out of here. Both of you. And don’t let me see you in the news.”

  Outside, the heat bore down like a bad mood. The sun had burnished our famous Colorado blue sky into a dull hollow, like an upturned fry pan.

  I drove around to the far side of headquarters and across a series of tracks to the garage. One of the mechanics, Mason Reese, saw me coming and waved me in. Here was where they serviced not just our police cars, but also the crew trucks, our little putt-putts, the high-rail vehicles, and assorted other track maintenance equipment.

  “Hey,” he said when Clyde and I got out. “Your truck’s not done.”

  “Good to see you, Mason.” We shook hands. “Boss told me to go ahead and take it. Give it a test run for a couple of days.”

  He thought about this, then shrugged. “Okay.”

  Mason gave the sense that all human activity was mysterious and better left unexplored.

  “You mind if I leave my Land Cruiser here for the next day or so?”

  He swiped his nose with the back of his hand. Shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Would you take a look at it first? I need to check something.”

  “Can’t service personal vehicles.”